Pike knew she had not spoken as soon as he saw her, and thought it unlikely she would regain consciousness. The shape of the bandage on her head suggested a bullet had entered beneath her left eye, angling away from the midline. The way the visible part of her face was swollen and discolored suggested bone fragments from the maxilla had exploded into her sinuses, mouth, and eye like shrapnel. The pain would have been excruciating. Pike lifted the sheet enough to see the incisions taped across her chest and abdomen, which were still orange from the Betadine solution used to clean the area. He lowered the sheet, and tucked it beneath her. The upper chest wound had done the most damage. The bullet had likely deflected off her ribs or clavicle, and punched down through the diaphragm into her abdomen. Between the time she was shot and the time she was wheeled into surgery, her left lung had collapsed, the chest cavity had filled with blood, and the blood had drained through the diaphragm into her abdomen. As she lost blood, her blood pressure dropped until it was so low her organs began shutting down, like a car engine without enough oil. A car engine without oil will run, but the engine will damage itself. Let it run long enough, you can replenish the oil all you want, but the damage will have been done, and the engine will die. Ana Markovic had bled out internally, and now she was dying.

Pike had seen men die this way before, and knew if this young woman was ever going to offer what she had seen, she would have to offer it soon.

Pike said, “Ana?”

Her visible eye flagged, rolled, drooped.

Pike touched her cheek.

“Ana, we need your help.”

The eye rolled, then drooped again, an autonomic move without conscious thought.

Pike took her hand. He stroked it, then pinched the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger.

“What did they look like?”

She did not respond.

“Who shot you?”

A rigid female voice cut him from behind.

“Move away from her.”

Pike calmly turned. A woman in her late twenties who was probably the sister stood framed in the door. Eyes like flint chips, black hair pulled tight, and a pronounced East European accent.

Pike said, “I was trying to wake her.”

“Leave go her hand, and move away.”

She wore a suede jacket over designer jeans and cradled an oversized leather shoulder bag with one hand. The other hand was inside the bag, and ominously still.

Pike placed Ana’s hand on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I came to see if she was awake. The Meyers were friends of mine.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“The people she worked for?”

“Frank and Cindy. Ana cared for their boys.”

“You know Ana?”

“We never met, no.”